


Ten Years Later

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, One Shot, Ten Years Later, callbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ten years following his marriage to Sansa Stark, Jon carries out his duty as Warden of the North.





	Ten Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sort of follow up to my story "Stability", if you want to read it it is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271257/chapters/35424450
> 
> just a bit of a fluffy one shot i was compelled to write. anyway, i hope you guys enjoy it! please leave comments and love if you want I always enjoy that :)

The grass was soft and muddy under his boot, the result of the last few heavy rainfalls that the North had endured. Still, a bit of rain could not – indeed, would not – stop Jon from fulfilling his duty.

A dozen Stark men stood guard over the weathered execution block, the same one that he'd watched his lord father behead the deserter from the Night's Watch. _That seemed like a lifetime ago,_ Jon mused – he wondered what Lord Eddard would think now, with no Night's Watch needed to guard the realm.

Standing next to the block he nodded to Powell, his guard captain. The man shouted for the condemned to be brought forth – and being lead by two guards the man came into view, his hands manacled for the safety of guards and small-folk alike.

Stopping before the block, the grizzled man sneered to Jon, tufts of his white beard swaying gently in the wind. Spitting at Jon's feet he cursed, “Their bodies was warm and supple!”. Cackling, the man - a murderer who had been discovered feasting on the corpse of one of his victims – dropped to his knees, still giggling.

Perhaps he'd erred in bringing Torrhen _,_ Jon thought as Powell handed him the great-sword. _No, every Stark needs to see what his duty entails._ Bran had been there when they'd executed the deserter and he was Torrhen's age.

He chanced a glimpse toward his son, who stood beside the horses with his eyes fixed on the scene before him. He wore a grim expression for a ten-year old, but did not show any fear. Jon offered him a smile – one that Torrhen returned.

Drawing the great-sword from its sheath Jon pointed it to the ground. “In the name of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” he stated, exhaling softly. This was only his third execution as Warden of the North; the thought brought him back to Olly and Janos Slynt.

“I, Jon of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North sentence you to die.” he finished, the maniac before him still laughing and writhing about even with his arms being held down by two guards.

He took the man's head in one swift stroke, the blade slicing clean through. Blood spurted from the neck as the corpse twitched its death throes, the head rolling slightly down the hill. Taking a cloth one of his men offered he wiped the blood from the majority of the blade before returning it to its sheath.

* * *

As Powell and the others disposed of the corpse Jon walked towards his son, patting him on the shoulder. “I know you didn't really want to see this Torrhen,” he noted, “but I am proud of you for agreeing to come.”

Torrhen nodded. “I'm not afraid of blood, Father – it is just...a..” he stammered, struggling to come up with the words.

Jon knew how he felt. “A different feeling then sparring, I know. The weight of taking someone's life is...is not something we take for granted.”

“The man who passes the sentence swings the sword.” the boy repeated the Stark mantra – the same one Jon had learned. “Mother told me it is our way.”

Walking beside him Jon patted Torrhen's back. “In the south they have headsmen – soldiers or knights sworn to some lord that do this – but that is for them.” he explained as the boy climbed into his saddle.

Torrhen brushed some of his red hair out of his eyes. “What happens now, Father?” the boy was full of questions; it was one of the things Jon loved most about him; he had inherited a thirst for knowledge that reminded him of himself – who had once desired to become a maester.

“What do you say we head back home to your mother?” Jon replied, mounting his horse. “and you can tell her that you faced the sight as a Stark does.”

* * *

Leaning on the railing overlooking the practice yard, Jon smiled down at Torrhen as he honed his sword play upon a straw-filled dummy. The boy was quick and nimble, he had noted – yet he always held his shield a bit too low. Likely as not it was due to the weight; Jon remembered as a child he had committed the same sin.

Even though it had been a decade since his birth, Jon wondered at the idea of being a father even now. In all of his dreams he had never thought to father a child – especially not a child who would become the next Lord of Winterfell.

“When did you return?” a voice asked from behind him. Jon smiled as Sansa took her spot on the railing next to him, looking down towards their son approvingly.

Jon chuckled as Torrhen dropped his shield and began stabbing wildly at the dummy. “Not ten minutes ago, I would imagine.” he replied, eyes wandering to his wife. Sansa wore her hair in a ponytail, along with a thin blue and black dress.

She reached out and took his hand. “How did it go?”

“Quickly. Powell listened to me about sharpening the sword, thankfully.” he noted, squeezing her hand tight. Her presence was a welcome feeling to Jon; she always knew how to help him relax. Her commanding and soothing voice put his frayed nerves at ease.

Below, Torrhen was being scolded by Terwyg, the master-at-arms about his outburst.

She patted his hand softly, gently leaning into his chest as they watched Torrhen. “Good. And Torrhen?”

Jon nodded his approval. “He did well.”

They watched in silence for a few moments, enjoying the company of each other. The past ten years had brought them closer as husband and wife. Jon was not as uncomfortable with the arrangement as he had once been; though it was still an effort to feel the same passion towards Sansa as he did with Ygritte.

He knew there was love between them; just not the passionate kind. Both of them seemed happy to advance their marriage at a slower pace – and even with Torrhen's birth a decade ago, things had been gradual – and it was the best for them both. Sansa had endured the trauma of marriage before – and Jon would not subject her to any undue pressure.

It was a good feeling to fall asleep cuddled up next to her, though. Something Jon relished in his nightly rituals. “He has his father's courage.” Sansa added as Jon shuffled his feet slightly.

“And his mother's.” he added softly, “you are as brave as any warrior, Sansa. Never forget that.”

 _She is far more a ruler then I,_ Jon noted. Sansa dealt with the business of a lord as an expert – she was effective, determined and able. Jon still struggled to keep the northern banners in line; yet with her help he had been able to ensure a decade of peace for the North.

“Oh!” Sansa exclaimed, rising from Jon's chest, “Maester Wolkan just told me. We've had a letter from Arya.”

Jon beamed. He had always loved hearing from his little sister. “And how is she enjoying Storm's End?”

Sansa shrugged, “her letter didn't say much about that. Though she did say that Gendry has been a....good host to her.” she winked, laughing as Jon groaned audibly.

“Seven hells, Sansa.” he chortled, “next time keep that to yourself.”

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jon looked down at the floor. “Even ten years later it still feels surreal.” he mumbled as he removed his boots, putting them beside the bed table.

“What does, Jon?” Sansa – who was already laying in bed – asked, pulling herself up to focus on him.

Jon turned back to her. “This. Us. Torrhen – all of it.” It was a difficult thing to admit for him but there were times that he felt almost as though his life was a cruel dream, a jest played upon him by the Night King – that in truth he was dead and a wight, aimlessly wandering the frozen wasteland of Westeros.

She smiled, reaching out to his shoulder. “We've talked about this before, Jon. I know how you feel.” she assured him. Jon eyed the scars on her shoulders visible through the straps of her night dress, “we both have the scars to prove this is real.”

That much was true, at least. “Aye, it's just....I don't know, Sansa. I feel like an imposter sometimes.”

“Listen to me – do you know what you are?” she asked him as he slid his feet onto the mattress, “you are a Stark of Winterfell, a husband and father. A good man.” Sansa hugged him tight, the warmth of her body contrasting with the coolness of his own.

Jon laughed, “I sound like the maniac I executed today, spewing nonsense. But – thank you, Sansa. It always does me good to hear it from your lips.”

Laying down, he wrapped his arms around her as she nuzzled into his chest, kissing him on the cheek gently. “Good night, Jon. A new day awaits us in the morrow. And we face it together.” she whispered, eyes growing heavy.

Sleep came easy for him that night – just as it did every night he felt her at his side.

* * *

 

 

 

 


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